


The Open Road

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: #GallavichWeek [17]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bus, Canon Compliant, Day 3 - Reunion, EMT!Ian, Feellngs, GW2017B, Gallavich, Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2017 B, Getting Back Together, I like it, Ian POV, Ian-centric, M/M, Mexico, Mickey has an accent, Open Road, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, They talk a lot, bus rides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 03:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Maybe two miles out, Ian spied the large steel fencing separating the borders of America and Mexico. Other passengers seemed oblivious. The open road ended here. It was high time that he made a decision.





	The Open Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gallavich Week 2017 B Day 3 - Reunion
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Not beta-read. _Open to volunteers_.

Ian watched the roads.

Slowly, the concrete structures became few and few. Large warehouses, massive in structure and selfish with space, stretched out amongst the farm lands. Then, it was _Haciendas_ —large farms with multitudes of commercially grown vegetables. It stayed green for along time until where the automatic sprinklers couldn’t reach. He stared into the depressingly dry soil, yellowish brown and void of vegetation.

Life was hard out here.

Barely anything survived.

Several people were on the bus with him—all looking somewhat of latin american descent. He stuck out like a sore thumb—white skin, red hair, and half of his EMT gear. The blue uniform top was shoved at the topmost part of his rucksack.

It had been a split-second decision to go.

He hadn’t planned to go Mexico.

There were no plans after crossing the border.

It was something he wanted— _needed_ —to do; Mickey was put there, on the other side.

Maybe two miles out, Ian spied the large steel fencing separating the borders of America and Mexico. Other passengers seemed oblivious. His pulse raced, heart thumping loudly inside his ribcage. The prickly heat finally caught up to him. Sweat poured out from every possible orifice. He felt it in places he never knew existed.

Had it been this daunting the first time?

Ian couldn’t remember.

He remembered lightly tanned skin that looked white under the moonlight, blotchy ink-stained fingers that felt like ice to the touch, the ever-present smell of cigarettes and beers that clung to the air, the way Mickey’s brows curved in longing, and, finally, the sad blue eyes filled with forbidden emotions. All of these haunted Ian’s dreams. He doesn’t want dreams; he wants reality.

They pass the border without a hitch. Suddenly, it’s endless planes of dry brown earth. No houses of miles. No signs of life. Ian’s first impression of Mexico was that it’s a wasteland. Guilt churned in his stomach like thick non-viscous bile. It ate him from the inside out.

He was naïve, foolish, and cowardice.

How could he have let Mickey do this all alone?

The brakes let out a high-pitched whine when the bus halted to a stop. Everyone was shaken from their road-trance. Stops this close to the border didn’t seem normal. Someone from outside was yelling, ordering people on. There were whispers but they all did it in boisterous thickly-accented Spanish that rendered Ian confused. This was their country, not his. Here, he had no one.

“Got lost, Firecrotch?”

Ian’s eyes snapped up. His gaze immediately fell on the man who had slouched beside him. The bus began trolling down the dusty highway. It was back to business as usual; people in their seats along with the new passengers. But, Ian’s world had shaken. He stared at the profile of a man he thought he would never see again.

Mickey’s hair had grown. It hid under a rugged-looking beanie. A thick black beard covered half of Mickey’s face, hiding the curve of darkened pink lips. He wore black metallic band shirt with the sleeves ripped off, loose-fitting faded whitewash jeans, and a long-sleeved button-up secured around his waist. His jacket was balled-up into a ball on his lap. It was heavy-duty, no doubt used to keep warm in harsh open temperatures.

Like he had gotten impatient for a response, Mickey turned around. He slung one arm over the back of Ian’s seat, knee pressing against Ian’s thigh, nonchalantly invading Ian’s personal space. This gave Ian full-view of Mickey’s bright blue eyes with Mexico’s orangey sunset in the background. Then, Mickey smiled and it was the most beautiful thing Ian had seen in ages.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian breathed out, still uncomprehending if this was all a mirage.

That seemed to break the spell. Mickey’s smile turned into a the lopsided half-grin, teeth biting the corner of his lower lip. A pale tattooed hand comes to rub it. Somethings didn’t change. Ian had visions of the exact same gesture being done on countless occasions when they were still in Chicago. It drives the guilt higher up his throat.

“Cat got’ya tongue, Red?” Mickey clicked his tongue twice, thinking. His fingers idly rapped against the plastic backrest. His brows waved mischievously. “Oiy, knock knock, did’a heat get ya? Gets bitch cold in da night tho.” Then, he made a conflicted face that broke Ian’s heart into pieces. “Ya—ah,” he hesitated, “ya gonna stay or what? How long ya here for?”

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian gasped, reaching out to touch for the first time—all too sacred that his mind finally pulled the ultimate prank on him. He didn’t know how he’d survive that. No, he wouldn’t. It would be the absolute worst, and yet he’d want it. He wanted even the tiniest fantasy of Mickey than not have anything at all. “Are you real?”

Mickey scoffed, scorn marring his features. “Are ya? Been ‘ere seven fucken’ months and yar white ass shows up. What gives, fuckface? You here for a thrill? For a high? What’ar ya ‘ere for, huh? Come to shove your pretty-ass life in my face? See how ya turned out?”

“Mickey, no,” Ian broke, restrain dissolving. “Fuck!”

Touch; he wanted to touch Mickey. He wanted proof that this was real. He wanted to feel Mickey again after all these months. But, he couldn’t bring himself to—not when Mickey looked like that, the same look Ian remembered when he got too shit scared to cross the border. Now, though, he had the words he had been meaning to say.

“I miss you—fuck, Mick, _I fucking miss you_.” His voice was no more than a sob when he finished, hands shaking in front of him. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking back then—”

Mickey scoffed. “Damn right! Tch, ‘course you was stupid ta get’in da car.”

“No!” Ian yelled, causing several eyes to turn their way. He was too alert about it. Embarrassed, he shrunk his massive frame into a low slouch.

Mickey glared daggers. “You stupid o what, fucker? You tryin’ to attract attention, huh? Fuck this… Hey, Juan!” He yelled, pointing two fingers at a guy seating five seats ahead. “Ya’ll know the drill! Take’em to Mateo. He’ll know what to do. Part’s done. I gotta do some shit. Gonna blounce!” He grabbed Ian by the shirt front. “Come on, Red, this is our stop.”

Ian followed Mickey out the bus. They were on a small corner street in the middle of a town. The town itself was tiny. It was only a stretch of road with buildings scattered on the sides. No one gave them any more than a side glance. Still, Ian couldn’t help pull his bag closer to him.

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up and keep walking, Ginger.”

Mickey knew the town. Ian could tell by the way Mickey walked—confidence like that didn’t come easy. Mickey walked like more than knew it. It was like he _owned_ it. His strides were long and powerful, going through corners and small dirt road streets.

They stopped in a small half-finished two-storey house. It was bare and barely there—cement with no finish, wooden doors, and a cut-outs for windows. Mickey reached over the fence and unlatched the padlock. The gate swung with a whine.

Once inside, Mickey started to strip his layers. The jacket came first, hung on an cement peg beside door. The beanie came next, flung to a worn-looking sofa. It left Mickey with the cut-off black shirt and loose cargo pants. The scent of booze, cigarettes, and weed clung to the dust in the air.

It was simple, sure—a living room and kitchen rolled into one, seats scattered around a battered table with a TV on the far wall, and the cooking area behind it. To the side were stairs leading to the second story. Mickey went over to the table to unload hoa pockets—a matchbox, a crushed cigarette carton, and a string of condoms.

“What the fuck is that?” Ian glared accusingly at the foil packs. “You fuck all the people you smuggle-in?”

That broke Mickey’s silence.

“What’s it to ya who I fuck?” Mickey whipped around, fuming. His hand gripped the back of a wooden chair. “Think I’ll be wallowing in my shit waiting for your stupid ass? You _left me_ , Ian! You had a chance to go. You could’ve come but you didn’t. You made your choice so, tell me, why the fuck are you here?”

Ian shook his head, trapped. “No, fuck.” His rucksack fell to the floor with a thud. This wasn’t how it should’ve happened. He was supposed to make things better, not worse. “Just… just listen to me, okay?”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, forehead wrinkling. He jerked the chair back, twisting it so he could straddle the backrest while he sat.

“Ya, fine,” he eventually said, waiving his hand out. “Out with it.”

Ian stared at him. Intense blue eyes focused on him like they were seeing into his should. He looked away. Instead, his eyes trained in the spot on Mickey’s chest where he vaguely remembered seeing a misspelled tattoo of his name. He knew it was there despite the chair blocking it. It gave him the courage he needed.

“Last time was a mistake and I regret—” he heard Mickey’s inhale deeply, “—but it wasn’t getting in that car that makes me sick to my stomach about myself. No, Mick—” he bargained a chance to look at Mickey’s eyes. Fuck, how could he have ever turned away? “—it was getting off before we crossed the border.”

Mickey made a small sound. He quickly covered it up with a cough. “I don’t blame ya… ya gotta good life back there, good boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever, and ya turned ya shit ‘round. Cleaned up real good. Look at ya now all official and shit. I didn’t—ya don’t leave all that shit for m—e”

“Don’t say it!” Ian spat, venom in his voice more disgusted in himself than anything else. “Yes, I could—I would—I _should’ve_ the first time! I should’ve come with you—but I was stupid and scared and—confused. I thought I moved on. I thought I didn’t love you—but I do. I don’t think I ever stopped. You said it before; _you’re it for me_ , the whole gay party.”

Mickey didn’t say anything for the longest time. Ian didn’t know how long they sat there. Mickey’s face closed off. His eyes darkened into thunderstorm blue, staring off into the abyss, void of any emotions. Not a thing. Not even anything on his eyebrows.

“Tch,” he snorted, finally breaking. “But what about me?” He asked, eyes looking straight at Ian—challenging, “What if I want out, huh? If I ain’t got no place ‘ere for ya? It’s been a year, Gallagher. Gonna have’ta drag your sorry ass to Chicago.”

Ian fought hard against his tear. A large heart-shaped rock lodged in his throat. This was it; this was Mickey’s leaving him. This was the end—their end, when Mickey finally cut loose from all his bipolar bullshit. Mickey shouldn’t have to put up with a broken guy like him.

“No, please,” Ian whispered, breaking. “I don’t wanna leave you.”

“You idiot.”

Ian shut his eyes, prepared for the fists to come. He heard the chair move, then Mickey’s heavy footsteps followed. He froze the moment when Mickey’s hands touched the sides lf his head—headbutt it is then. But, no. Mickey’s lips—chapped and a bit dusty—carefully pressed against his. The thick beard tickled his chin and cheek, but Mickey was kissing him so sweetly that Ian felt the world fade away.

They were back—back to their teens, back to the abandon buildings, back to the stolen moments in their past. Despite the years of separation, it was like they never parted. Mickey hands buried in his hair. His hands around Mickey’s hips. Their bodies in perfect alignment—like two sides finally made whole again.

Ian dove right in when Mickey opened his mouth. He licked every crevice that he could reach. Mickey tasted like stale beer, chalky cigarettes, and snicker bars—and fuck if it wasn’t the same. Every touch, every taste, and every scent was the same. Ian breathed in the feeling of life that he hadn’t felt it a long, long time.

The bright blue color of Mickey’s eyes were the first thing Ian saw. They were swimming with emotion. He could soak in that endless ocean and become absolutely weightless. Mickey didn’t have to say the L-word because Ian could hear it loud and clear.

“I can stay?” He needed to ask. It had to be clear. There’s been enough miscommunication between them already.

In response, Mickey cupped a hand behind Ian’s neck, squeezing.

“Yeah,” he said, finally smiling. “No more running.”

Ian was where he needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice~ One of the reasons why I love writing for this fandom is because of the feedback that I get. It doesn't have to be long or inspiring. I'm constantly trying to improve how I write—be it grammar, plot, or characters. I'd appreciate it. :) 
> 
> ***  
>  **If you have a prompt or an idea, you can[INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~**
> 
>  
> 
> **As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).**


End file.
